


suddenly i'm hit

by Wintertree



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, References to bondage, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 17:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12709560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintertree/pseuds/Wintertree
Summary: "So Zevran," he says, finally calming down, "on a scale from a lonely fisherman’s wife to an Antivan prostitute, how fucked are we?"





	suddenly i'm hit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iodhadh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iodhadh/gifts).



> "suddenly i'm hit" is a lyric from Retrograde by James Blake because 1) it's the song that originally inspired me even though its is near unrecognizable to what I ended up writing, 2) it's literally what happened to Brosca at the start of the story and as they come to certain realizations about the other, and 3) it's quite frankly a bop of a song.
> 
> It's canon-hand-wave-compliant. A couple of content warnings/explanations in the end notes.*

All things considered, Zevran’s new arrangement with the Warden and his ragtag crew of scoundrels isn’t so bad. They kept rather annoyingly close watch over him for these first couple weeks, but at least the Warden seemed to enjoy having a stray to care for.

“I spy with my little eye, something… hopeless.”

Zevran glances up from his sad attempt at picking the rusted lock. “Is it, hm, my _hopelessly_ charming smile?”

The Warden chuckles from cell opposite, a stationary mass lying on top of the rotting hay.

Zevran spares a glance. "Talk to me, my friend."  In the dim light he can barely see the smudgy shape that was Brosca.

"About what? This year's nug production?" Brosca wheezes out a wet chuckle.

"Aha, yes! How well you know me already to delicately pluck the thought right from my mind. Please, tell me more." Zevran wipes sweat from his brow, trying to concentrate on the lock in front of him.

It only took a day and a half after leaving Redcliffe before their little troupe got thoroughly distracted. They stumbled across a corpse with strange markings, and off they scurried to solve the mystery. Morrigan gnashed her teeth and complained about wasting time. To be honest, Zevran agreed. But Brosca got so riled up at the chance to go on a quest for justice, there was no way he could say no when the Warden asked him to accompany him.

That was the thing about Brosca. As tough and calloused as his hands were, he had the softest of hearts. Zevran’s sheer existence was overwhelming proof of his the Warden’s mercy. The short time he’s known him, he went out of his way save the life of a demon child and an entire town’s worth of ungrateful people. He’s seen him casually pass coins to orphans and, on one _very_ memorable occasion, get completely shirtless to give his mabari hound a bath. He’s the type to make young maidens weep and bite their handkerchiefs out of the sheer, blinding light of his own virtue.

Plus, the Warden had already asked Alistair and Wynne to join, and it was always fun to needle them if the mission turned out to be a bust.

Until he tripped over a stump and fell head first into a clearing full of cultist blood mages. A dozen dead and two dozen unfortunately alive and very pissed cultists later, Brosca and Zevran were separated from the group and taken to an underground ruin of a dungeon. A ruin with annoyingly sturdy iron bars.

"Hmm, well," Brosca says, adopting a serious and nasal tone, "a mated nug will give birth to a litter of four every 24 days."

"Is that so?" He hears another tumbler click into place and tries to contain his excitement. Zevran zones out as Brosca chatters on about nugs and their jointed fingers or some such. It all sounds like lies and half truths, something he’s grown accustomed to with tales of Brosca’s home, but he lets it wash over him as white noise.

After a moment, Zevran realizes that the talking stopped. A second later, he hears what Brosca must have as well – shuffling feet by the door is all the warning he gets before two guards walk in on their rounds.

There’s two of them, one clearly a mage with a sour face and sourer breath. The other is young and gangly, but the way he grasps the sword at his side isn’t clumsy in the least.

They quietly inspect the dungeon before turning to leave.

Deftly hiding the pick up his sleeve, Zevran throws on his most sultry face with a dash of beautiful misery to match the surroundings.

“Please,” he murmurs to Gangly, “may I have some water? Ale? Anything to sooth my thirst…”

Gangly hesitates before making a full stop in front of the cell. Zevran doubles down on the tragic beauty angle. “Please?”

Gangly takes another step closer to bars, reaching through to lightly grasp the top of his armor. And then he yanks Zevran forward, face crashing into the bars with a loud clang.

Zevran curses colorfully, lip stinging, but all Gangly does is cackle and join Sour impatiently waiting at the door.

Several moments after the guards leave, Brosca makes a humming noise. “You hurt?”

“Only my ego.”

“Good,” Brosca says, his voice tight. “Very good.” His voice cracks, snorting as laughter bubbles out of him until he’s lost to a fit of deep, bellowing laughs.

Zevran crossly retrieves his pick and goes back to task at hand, trying to ignore him. Very funny, indeed. He wasn’t able to pull a simple pickpocket and all he got was a split lip for his trouble. He wills his irritation away. At least the Warden had inquired about his health, which was sweet, if unnecessary. The dwarf really was too soft for this kind of life.

"So Zevran," he says, finally calming down, "on a scale from a lonely fisherman’s wife to an Antivan prostitute, how fucked are we?"

"Did Leliana teach you that one? Naughty girl, she's making me homesick."

"Zev."

Zevran refuses to look away from the rusted lock, nearly picked. "Hush, you're interrupting a skillful and handsome master at work."

“Hey, you _did_ ask me to talk earlier,” he gripes. The lump shifts. "Toss the picks over, let me–"

"Be still!" Zevran snaps. Maker. Zevran breathes in. He smiles. Master Marlowe taught him that trick. Change your body and your mind will follow. "If you wish to pump poison to your heart until your sudden yet unsurprising death, be my guest. My getting stabbed from your unhappy companions? Ah, a slight inconvenience for me, but certainly your spirit could manage."

"If they kill you, I'll haunt them."

"Haunt Alistair for eternity?" Zevran tsks. "Surely you realize you’d be the one cursed."

Brosca chuckles, but it breaks into a series of wet coughs. Zevran’s hand slips, pick slipping out of the tumbler. Damn it, he’ll have to start over again.

Brosca’s a deadly creature on the battlefield, but his skill lies with nimble fingers and quick slices rather than pure brutish strength. Zevran’s been doing his best to stick close and distract enemies in battle, but he missed that archer cultist hiding in a crevice. Zevran promptly killed the woman, obviously, and Brosca tugged the arrow out of the meat of his shoulder without flinching. Zevran felt pretty confident they could still fight their way back to camp, but the Warden sheepishly tapped him on the shoulder and informed him that his arm was completely numb. It was only a matter of time more before they were surrounded.

“I’m sure they won’t kill you. Probably.”

"Now now, Warden. I wouldn’t blame them. You should have invited Leliana instead of me."

"For the dirty jokes?"

"For the lock picking skills." Zevran gives up and sits down, back against the bars. Sloppy. Leliana had offered to teach him lock picking at camp, but he laughed and waved off the girl’s well-meaning patronization. “Obviously you keep _me_ around for the dirty jokes.”

"Fair, but she also knows little of poisons." Brosca gets the words out, slowly. He doesn’t know what exactly coated the arrow that pierced the Warden’s armor — if he had to venture a guess, Zevran would think deathroot-based — but he can hear the effects as Brosca takes longer to form words, wheezing between breaths.

"What, you think she'd encourage you to do jumping jacks? Even my bruised ego can admit you’d be better off with her." If it wasn’t for his arrogance in the first place, he would have stayed back at camp instead of jumping at the chance to impress the Warden.

“For all you tease, you’d, you’d really think you’d be able to easily get out of any bindings.”

“Ah but that’s ropes, not ugly damp cells. And the fun about ropes is that you _can’t_ get out of them.”

The dwarven lump mumbles something else.

"Hmm? What was that, my friend?"

Zevran waits, but Brosca doesn’t repeat his words.

"Warden?" Dread seeps in like icy water. "Brosca. Brosca, stay awake. No time for a lazy nap." He stands once again, peering into the cell. Still no movement. Zevran gives a harsh kick to the cell door in frustration, the loud _clang!_ echoing through the room.

A man’s voice shouts from somewhere outside the door. Zevran whips his head as the door slams open, tensing his body for a fight.

Soft, yellow light spills into the room around Alistair’s bulky form. Zevran relaxes minutely.

"Zevran? Is he–" Alistair pants. He even looks the part of the dashing hero, light glinting off of his silver armor so bright it hurts to look at him directly.

"Over there, the cell over there!"

The color drains from Alistair’s face as he takes in Brosca's slumped form. “Wynne!” he yells, rushing to the cell door and rattling the old metalwork.

Wynne follows into the dungeon, cursing at the conditions.

“Wynne, here, against the hinges,” Alistair says, panic lacing his words. She blasts ice at the old metal bars. Alistair strikes against it a couple of times before the brittle metal crumples under his broadsword. He rips the cell door open for Wynne to rush inside and cast a thick aura of healing over the dwarf.

“Alistair, what of the guards? Are they coming?” Zevran asks. His throat clicks. “Alistair.” The man doesn't acknowledge him, and neither does Brosca move.

Ah, well. It wasn’t like any of them were going to survive the Archdemon anyways, but this was rather anticlimactic. He survived Circle full of blood mages but taken down by some dirty cultists in the wood. Zevran feels a bit... disappointed; Brosca had been a fun companion, for the short time he’d known him. It was rare to find someone either kind or stupid enough to give him a second chance.

Going for the hinges was smart. If Alistair and Wynne leave him locked up rather than finishing him off, he should target that next. Perhaps—

Brosca hacks out a cough and tries to sit up.

“Stop that,” Wynne scolds. “No moving.”

“That’s what _I_ told him,” Zevran says. Alistair looks at him and blinks, as if surprised to see him there.

“Wynne.” She spares a glance to cast another ice spell at the hinge on Zevran’s cell. The spell’s noticeably weaker and it takes Alistair longer to hack through the metal. Zevran gifts him a little bow before rushing to Brosca’s side, gently touching the clammy and greying skin.

Wynne wipes the sweat from her brow. “I've healed him as much as I can, Zevran, but–”

“It's alright, my friend, a little bit of poison never killed anyone. Help me flip him.”

Carefully, they roll him onto his side and peel back the leather armor to expose the wound. It's bleeding sluggishly, but clotting doesn't seem to be an issue. Zevran sniffs it. Musky sour. And Brosca mentioned the sensation of numbness.

Deathroot it is.

Wynne wordlessly passes him her pack and his rifles through the potions and odds and ends. A Morrigan-made poultice at the bottom of the sack looks like it should be able to do the trick.

He applies it to the wound, but knows from experience that it will sting as the numbness recedes. Sure enough, Brosca pinches his face and starts grumbling.

Alistair rushes forward and pushes Zevran out of the way. “How long will it take?” Alistair asks. Zevran lets himself fall back easily, feeling more drained than he thought he would.

Brosca opens his eyes and focuses on the warrior in front of him. “You're very shiny.”

“Er, thank you?” Alistair shakes his head. “How are you feeling? Still dying?”

“Alistair!” Wynne admonishes. Some of the color’s returned to her face.

“Sorry, sorry! And, uh,” he says to Zevran, rubbing the back of his neck, “what were you asking before?"

"Guards?"

"Oh! No, the guards are all very, very dead.”

“Ah. _Good_. He should be fine for now. Perhaps if you're ready, Wynne, you could do one last healing spell before we leave?” Zevran asks. Brosca turns his head and fixes his dark brown eyes on him.

He breaks out into a sloppy wide grin. “Zev!”

“Yes, my friend?” Zevran practically feels giddy. Brosca wriggles his fingers and toes to gain back circulation, discomfort still evident in his expression.

“Don't…” He coughs. “Don't let Alistair stab you.”

Zevran laughs at Alistair’s confused sputtering, smile tugging his lip uncomfortably. “Don't you worry, it's far harder to get rid of me than it is to get rid of you.”

Brosca squints his eyes as Zevran, dropping the mirth.

“You _are_ hurt.” Brosca reaches out and tries to touch the dried scab on his split lip, face darkening as his lucidity returns. “The guard.”

Zevran gently bats his hand away. “Is apparently very, very dead. It is a scratch, my friend, nothing more.”

Brosca's hand twitches and raises. At first Zevran expects him to try and touch his face one more, but instead he clasps him on the arm and goes to stand. Alistair is quick to assist as Brosca wobbles upright.

“That wasn't so bad,” Brosca pants. “I don't know what all of you are staring at.”

Wynne humphs. “You're walking back here with me, you.”

“Yes ma’am!” Brosca salutes.

They make their way out of the dungeon, cobblestones turning to packed dirt.  Zevran can practically taste the fresh air when he steps over a corpse.

The body grunts.

Zevran crouches into a defensive position as the man scrambles his way to the wall, eyes wide and frantic. Despite the shadows of the hallway and the blood covering him, he's easily recognizable as his dear acquaintance Gangly. A shout rings out behind Zevran as his companions register the movement.

Zevran hesitates. He's seen more than his fair share of men in the moment before they die. The guard’s still staring at him, trembling with fear and hands up in surrender. As his mouth opens, Zevran can practically hear the whiny pleading already. He's no threat. And they never actually found out what these cultists were up to. Brosca will no doubt want his endless curiosity sated.

A rush of air to Zevran's left warns him a split second before a dagger buries itself in the guard's eye socket.

The man crumples to the ground, dead. After a moment, Zevran retrieves the dagger, passing it back to it’s owner.

“Not a bad throw for a sickly man, eh?” Brosca gently teases, taking his dagger back and afixing it to his belt.

“Not bad,” Zevran agrees. Brosca has a genial look on his face. Zevran searches it, hard, but there’s no darkness or cruelty there. In fact, there’s nothing there. None of his trademark mirth, nor his compassion. Completely blank.

Brosca slaps Alistair on the back. “Time to teach you how to count back at camp, Alistair.”

Alistair groans out his apology.

Zevran takes up the rear, toying his tender lip with his tongue and studying the Warden. He's seen him angry and afraid, but never– never one to withhold mercy, even when it seems to go against logic.

Interesting.

Brosca might be the only one on the team shorter than Zevran, but it's hard to take a look at his broad shoulders and hearty voice and think of him as petite. He’s surprisingly light on his feet, twirling from enemy to enemy with his twin daggers. Still, around the campfire, Zevran has noticed how he can fill a space, commanding respect and attention. He shouldn’t have been so quick to brush off Brosca’s kindly quirks. He _had_ mentioned he spent his life as a grifter and thief in the lowest of the towns in Orzammar.

Maybe Zevran had misread Warden, incorrectly labeling his protective streak as generalized benevolence. He spared Zevran's life, and now he was determined to look after it? There was... something Zevran had considered doing for quite some time, but only absentmindedly.

Maybe it's time to start thinking about it a bit more seriously.

\---

“Sure.”

Zevran blinks, but immediately smirks. “Oh, truly?”

Brosca continues sharpening his blade. A crude task, considering their conversation, but he needs something to keep his hands busy. “I’m not interested in your hand in marriage. Just a night, maybe more. Or was it always a joke, like one of your cruel conversations with Wynne?”

The elf sighs heartily and clutches his chest. “It’s she who’s the cruel one, a vixen who forever remains outside my grasp.”

Brosca chuckles. “You're the one who asked me. If you choose to settle for someone less handsome for the night, you know where my tent is. It's up to you.” He gathers his things. Oof, his legs are sore. Running for your life through a maze of a forest will do that to you. “For now, I’m going to take a quick wash down by the stream, hopefully get the smell of werewolf off me.”

“It’s Fereldan,” Zev calls out behind him, “you’ll only replace the smell of werewolf with the smell of dog.”

Grinning, Brosca tries to keep himself from being too obvious. They’d travelled together for several months now, and the flirtations only increased in time. He’s gotten pretty good at sniffing out when they were real, and when it was just Zev toying around.

Andraste’s tits, Zevran could be such a delightful little shit sometimes.

By the stream, Brosca briskly lathers himself up with lye, not wanting to be cold and wet any longer than he has to be. He dresses and grimaces, hating the way his tunic sticks to his damp skin.

He regrets his haste soon enough when he’s back at camp and finds himself needing to waste a couple more hours before the sun sets. He gossips with Alistair, accidentally offends Morrigan, and even lets himself get mocked ruthlessly by Shale. He can feel Zevran’s calculating gaze on the back of his neck, but refuses to look back and catch him.

Or worse, not catch him, and it turns he  _was_ only teasing this whole time.

As soon as it becomes dark, Brosca neatly says goodnight and returns to his tent. Restless, he pulls out the remaining Grey Warden treaty, already dreading the inevitability of returning to Orzammar now that they’ve successfully gained the Dalish as allies. It’ll be good to see his sister again, but it sounds like the political situation only grew more complicated (annoying) since he left (got thrown out).

Shockingly, the words are exactly the same as they’ve always been.

After the sixth or seventh read, quiet padding of feet alerts him to Zevran’s approach.

The elf pokes his head in and raises his eyebrow at the scroll in his hand.

“Care for a bedtime story?” Brosca asks, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Zevran leers but climbs in, sitting neatly on the ground.

“I can think of other ways to tire me out.” From where he’s seated, Zev pokes around his tent, casually snooping.

“Is that so?” Brosca stores the treaty. “What is it you want me to do?”

  
\---

Zevran watches the Warden’s rippling muscles as he pretends to be busy straightening up the tent. An adorable performance, but unnecessary.

With his back still turned, Zevran sneaks up on Brosca, laying across his broad shoulders.

“That all depends on you, my friend,” he says. Zevran licks his fingers and pinches out the candle, letting darkness fall in the tent. He’s willing to let their companions hear, but they haven't yet earned a free show.

He can feel Brosca freeze beneath him. "Ancestors, Zev, you know I want to fuck you."

"A most welcome thought.” He nips along Brosca's throat, savoring the juncture between throat and shoulder. Brosca shudders. “Certainly a pleasurable opportunity for both parties."

Zevran pulls up Brosca’s undershirt, rucking it up beneath his armpits. He flips to the other side, sucking in marks as he deftly unlaces the Warden’s trousers. Ah, the wonders of being ambidextrous. Doubtful Brosca has enough blood in his head to notice, but it excites Zevran all the same. It’s the little details.

Brosca slides his thick hands down Zevran’s side, squeezing almost thoughtless. He teases a thumb under Zevran’s leggings.

Brosca cups his jaw, leaning away to search his face. Zevran’s got elfsight to help him peer into shadows, but theoretically dwarves have eyesight to rival his own in the dark. He adopts a lazy grin, letting his eyes fall half-shut.

“Mm, see something you like?”

Brosca scrutinises him a moment longer, thumb slowly rubbing circles where it still rests against his jaw. “Are you stalling?”

Zevran sucks the thumb into his mouth, running his tongue against the knuckle to hide his annoyance. It's obvious to see the Warden's interest in the damsel in distress narrative — a kind master looking after the poor ward he picked up in the streets. It's... quite exciting at the center of the Warden's focused attention, the shiny favored one. But there's a difference between being spoiled and being coddled. He'll gamely play along with the latter for the time being, but it's already grating. 

He leans down, grinding his thigh between Brosca’s. The dwarf twitches but still doesn’t let go. Zevan nips the thumb one last time before tsking.

“Impatient, impatient.” He grinds down harder. “Now I’ll just have to tease you until daybreak, won’t I?”

“Zev,” he breathes out.

Zevran deftly pries free Brosca’s hands and has him wind the fingers through his hair.

“Oh and, my dear Warden,” he says lazily, “feel free to pull.”

Brosca shifts his hands, fisting his hair by the back of his nape– oh, _Maker_. Zevran’s eyes practically roll to the back of his skull as Brosca pulls him up for a series of searing kisses. He doesn’t yank, just increases the pressure until it builds like a low burn.

Zevran absentmindedly lets his arms fall behind his back and clasps himself.

"So," Brosca said, voice rough as he taps a free hand against Zevran's wrists, "how many of your jokes about getting tied-up were just that, and how many were actual suggestions?"

Zevran grins as he nuzzles against him. This– this will do nicely. If this is what he wants, there are worse things than becoming the Warden's little project.

\---

“I’ll let you get your beauty sleep, friend.”

Brosca blinks his eyes open. Zev’s already nimbly slipping his leggings on, hair comically half-pulled out of his braid.

“You can stay.”

Zevran hums and continues dressing, but coyly stretches out his neck. Cheeky bastard. Still, Brosca lets himself fall for the blatant seduction, reaching his arm out and letting his fingers drag down the side of his throat.

“I know I enchant all who meet me. Truly, I knew this day would be inevitable since the moment you laid eyes on me,” Zev says. Brosca tugs at the mess of the braid and Zevran makes an annoyed sound, batting Brosca’s fingers away to quickly fix it. “But you said you were only interested in the night. What follows next is whatever you want.”

“I did say one or _more_.”

“Oh? And how are we feeling?”

“More.”

Zevran whips his head around, a scandalized look on his face. “Now? _Again?_ ”

Brosca flicks him on the arm. “Maybe in the morning, so stay for the night. And next time I'll actually bother to unpack my rope.”

“Very well.” In an instant, Zev’s leggings come flying off and he’s once again fully nude and in Brosca’s bedrolls.

Still, something Zev said tickles the back of his mind. “Is this something you want as well?”

“Yes, certainly.” Zevran snuggles under the blanket. “For now.”

Brosca clears his throat. “Alright, but only if you’re willing.”

Zevran stills, but his voice remains perfect pleasant. “And why would I not be willing?”

Brosca groans internally. “Not _willing_ , that was the wrong word, just. It needn’t only be on my terms. You do have a say in how this works as well.”

“Ah,” Zevran says, still too damn pleasant.

Blight it. Brosca’s always been aware of how Zevran treats him. The way he speaks about him, it’s like he saved the elf’s life, when all he truly did was not murder an unarmed man. So maybe he took a bit more interest in Zevran's well-being than was warranted, but it's not like being a little protective means he deserves blind devotion. He just wanted a simple clarification that this wasn't some type of expectation, nor requirement.

“Don’t get me wrong, I really would like to do this again.” Brosca absently punches his lumpy pillow into a more manageable shape. He lays down, back to back with Zevran. A sliver of space separates them. “If I haven’t already convinced you to run into hills and never look back.”

After a long moment, Zevran huffs out a chuckle. “Kind of you to say, but no. To not take full use of a cock as Maker-blessed and thick as yours? Frankly blasphemous.”

Brosca snorts. “Hey, he’s your god, I can’t argue against your beliefs.”

“Eh, not really my god, but I suppose that’s true. Perhaps you could be awarded with Paragonship, no?” Zevran shifts against him, pressing back until their sides touch.

“Nope, we already got one of those.”

“No,” he says, scandalized. Soft, warm puffs of air blow against the back of his neck as Zevran flips around. “I cannot believe you.”

“Never heard of the infamous Paragon Bronton?” Brosca bites back a grin. Zevran pulls him onto his back and straddles his waist.

“You’re lying to me!”

“Aha! You don’t trust your fearless leader!” He flips them, and Zev kindly lets himself get tossed beneath him. “I’m hurt you think I would say falsehoods about something as holy and sacred as a Paragon. Or his impressive virility.”

“Perhaps you surpass your ancestor, no?”

“Ah, no,” Brosca says, “there’s an ancient yet anatomically accurate statue.”

Zevran makes a disbelieving noise, so Brosca lets his full weight rest on Zev’s body.

“Off, you oaf!” Zevran complains and wriggles, but makes no serious move to buck him off. Brosca just hides a grin into his neck. Finally, Zevran sighs and gives up in defeat. “Seriously, my friend, unless you wish to have your very own elf-pancake, I must beg you to get off.”

Brosca slips off him, but pulls at Zevran’s shoulder until he curls into the crook of Brosca’s arm, head resting on his chest. Brosca rubs his hand up and down Zevran’s back. He grumbles, but let’s Brosca continue, tension finally loosening from his body.

 

In the morning, Brosca wakes with a start to an empty tent. His chest thuds, but he clenches his bedroll in his hands until he’s calm enough to hear noises from the camp. There’s an annoyed murmur and peals of laughter that must belong to Zevran. Judging by the soft light through the side of the tent, it's late enough in the morning the others must have already started the day.

He hates waking up to a space that's different than how he left it, habits of living in Dust Town making him feel itchy and instinctually looking around to make sure no one ran off with anything valuable. Brosca groans and throws himself out of bed, unwilling to allow bad old memories write over new good ones. 

 

“Apologies, friend, but how is it not creepy that nugs have hands like ours?”

“Stop it, Zevran, they’re cute!” Leliana shrieks.

"But they have  _four_ hands when we have only two. It's greedy," he says.

Brosca can’t help but chuckle. Sure enough, the rest of his companions are already gathered by the fire except Sten, still trying to grab a couple extra minutes of sleep over the din.

"Please, Warden, they're so loud, make them stop," Alistair begs.

“Finally! Our 'fearless leader' awakens.” Zevran smiles at him, as if it’s any other day. “Come, have a seat here, and tell her all the dreadful truths about nugs you've told to me.”

Brosca ambles over, trying to stay nonchalant. “Depends, what will you give to me in exchange?” From a sly look from Leliana, he’s obviously failing.

“An elf-pancake,” Zevran murmurs. He slips one off the griddle and flips it at Brosca. He catches it, letting it bounce quickly between his fingers as it cools. It’s a little starchy and mealy, but good all the same.

Zevran finishes up and takes his own meal next to Brosca, knocking his knee gently against his own and letting it rest there. They eat in silence as Leliana and Morrigan team up to rib Alistair, still grumpy from waking.

Brosca glances at Zevran, who’s already staring at him with furrowed brows.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Brosca replies truthfully. At least, he thinks so. He stands, licking the last of the grease from his fingers. “I’m going to break down the tent."

Brosca gets as far as rolling up his bedroll before Zevran slinks over, not nearly as quiet as he thinks he is.

“You’re mad at me.”

He sighs. “No, I’m really not, Zev.”

Zevran just hums.

“Fine, now I’m mad, because you’re blocking the light.”

Zevran takes a step to the left. Bastard.

“My dear Warden, had I known you’d be in such a poor mood after sex, I hardly would have propositioned you.” Zevran sighs dramatically. “Such a gentle soul you are. You didn’t need to bed me out of concern. I’m not a pet to be taken care of.”

“That’s not–,” Brosca huffs before cutting himself off. “Now I _am_ in a bad mood. I honestly don’t know where you get these ideas about me.”

“So you don’t want me as a pet? Another little pup lapping at your feet?” he purrs.

Brosca flings his extra armor at Zev. “If you’re dead set on annoying me, at least be useful.”

Zev drops the sexy act, rearranging the armor with disinterest. “Pissy.”

Brosca snorts.

They work silently for a bit. In the distance, from Alistair’s pained yelling is sounds as though Leliana and Morrigan were still going strong in their harassment.

“I’m not a ‘gentle soul,’ I just enjoy your company,” Brosca says. “And I prefer not to wake on my own.”

Zevran leans over and nips at his ear. “Ah, my apologies, you never did get the morning wake-up you requested. And yes, you really are.”

Brosca flicks him on the ankle but doesn’t push him away. “I don’t mind if you leave. You can leave whenever you want, and do whatever and whomever you please.” Brosca turns and gives Zevran a dry peck on the lips. “Just tell me, plainly and when I can hear you.”

Zev regards him for a moment, one of his pleasant, unreadable expressions fixed to his face.

“Very well. Don't ask me if I'm 'willing' again,” Zevran says. Brosca opens his mouth to argue, but gets cut off. "You know what I mean. I'm not talking of watchwords, which yes, I intend us to use. Plentifully and deliciously. I'm talking about that voice you use, like you're talking to a spooked halla. Trust that I will not ask for what I do not want."

"I don't think you would," Brosca says unconvincingly. Zevran flicks him between the eyebrows. "Fine, I deserve that. I'll– I trust you." 

“Good." Zevran slides into Brosca's lap. "And you're stuck with me. In or out of your bed, I will fight the Archdemon beside you."

"You have no obligation to do so."

"Ah, but I do. However, I... won't let it follow me here." Brosca finds that separation hard to believe, but chooses to take him at his word. Zevran grasps Brosca by the beard, holding him in place for a moment before returning a deep kiss. “You are very interesting, Warden.”

“No,” Brosca says, purposefully tugging a strand of Zevran’s hair to muss the braid. “I’m really not.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Some descriptions of violence and Zevran tries to flirt with a guard that keeps him prisoner (doesn't end well, but Zevran's more annoyed than anything else - it's also not sexualized violence). There's a bit where Brosca thinks Zev's just feels like he owes him, and Zev thinks Brosca pities him/treats him with kid gloves. I would personally classify this more as angst rather than true miscommunication because, to be honest, they're not wrong! They talk about what behaviors bother them and they resolve to change them.*
> 
>  
> 
> I saw how friendly and supportive you were in the comments for the black emporium LAST FUCKING YEAR, and I was planning on writing you a lil treat…..but my time management skills left me in a ditch (like usual). I had then planned to post post-exchange (I think I even sent you an ask about it), but I got a new job and things just snowballed from there. BUT, silver lining, since I was scoping out your blog and AO3 account, I found your Drust series (seriously folks, go read it). I screamed out my ass the whole time & then for several minutes after I finished.
> 
> oh and the bit about zevran sticking close to the warden? That's because he's the only character in the game who automatically is specc'ed to defend you against enemies. i love him.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy!


End file.
